I told the kids I wasn’t going to condone doing it, but if they hooked up with a customer, keep it out of the bar. I wanted all of it, the actual sex and the drama, to stay off my property lines.
In my case, I never dipped my dick in the work pool anymore. It was only asking for trouble. Back in the day, eh. Whatever. Maybe I was older, wiser, or some bullshit like that, but there was an even greater risk now that I was in such a critical position. I was not just the boss. Ginger was mine.
Flirting, though, never hurt anyone. It was win-win. Plus, a little ego stroke was a good way to get through the dry spells without thinking you were a washed-up old man without the ability to land anything that didn’t have four legs.
I slid the margarita across the bar to the tall brunette. “Here you go, beautiful,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said, smiling, her red lips amazing against her white teeth. She brought her drink to her mouth and took a sip while giving me a wink. “Mmmmm,” she hummed before putting it down on a cocktail napkin, the edge of the glass stained with her crimson lipstick.
Bartenders always aimed to make a good drink, a great drink, because our entire livelihood depended on it. It didn’t matter who the customer was. However, there was something about a beautiful woman enjoying a cocktail that I made that got me going. I wasn’t sure if it happened to other bartenders, but it did for me.
“So, how’s business?” she asked.
“Great. I’m Marshall,” I said, extending a hand. “I’m the owner.”
“Ahh. Now I get it,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“You’re not wearing the same thing as the others.”
I looked down at my plain, white cotton shirt and jeans, and yes, I definitely didn’t fit in. I had ordered Ginger-embroidered white button-downs for management to tell us apart from the employees wearing something similar, but they weren’t in yet.
“Caught,” I said, grinning. “I wasn’t expecting to be helping, but if they need it, that’s what I do.”
“Not many would. Some would think they were above it.”
I shrugged. “I don’t think that way.”
“What things do you…think,” she said, looking me up and down before settling on my mouth, “about, Marshall?”
“Lots of things, beautiful,” I said with another wink.
She reached over the bar, running her hand across mine before letting it travel up my arm. “These look like they tell quite a story,” she said, referring to my tattoos.
“That they do. In fact—”
I stopped midsentence when the corner of my eye caught the strawberry-blond hair of the girl that shouldn’t have been occupying so much of thoughts. Alexis. Through the crowd I couldn’t see her face, but I’d know that hair, the slight wave of the hair falling around her face from the bun that twisted onto the crown of her head. When the pack parted, her head, her eyes, were solidly hitting me head-on. Her lips were pressed together tightly, and she looked…angry. The explanation of why rose above the crowd like smoke.
She’d been watching.
She saw me eyeing the brunette.
And then it was her eyes
On mine.
It was the same vibe, the same damn pull that was there since opening night.
Her lips, her expression softened. It was almost a smile the way the corners of her mouth lifted slightly.
It was clichéd as fuck. The only two people in the room. Nothing else. No noises. No anything.
Until…
The sound of rising voices, arguing.
Then glass shattering from somewhere close blew the moment up.
My head jerked to my left as the brunette I was flirting with let out a scream as a man to her right swung at my head security guy, Dave, who must’ve stepped in when he heard the initial arguing. He didn’t even come close to contact, but my body took over when I saw the dude holding a nice chunk of glass in his hand.
And then I don’t even remember exactly what happened—that was, what happened after I jumped over the bar to tackle the dude.
It was a mess of bodies, blows to the face, body, and a stinging pain radiating from my stomach downward, but none of it stopped me. By the time I could see through the haze of adrenaline, the dude’s hands were free of the glass, his face a mess of blood.
My hearing was the next sense that returned, my name being called, screamed from a voice with such a violent fear I needed to find it. I needed to find her. Was she hurt?
I scrambled across the floor from under the pile of guys and emerged to see chaos, frightened faces, and Wells holding Alexis back. I struggled to pull myself to my feet with uneasy legs, and as I did, glass dude broke one arm free as one of my security guys was trying to move him out.
And he got one perfectly clear, drunken-sized punch to my face in.
Then…darkness.
Chapter Eight
Alexis—
It was a level of fear, of utter panic, when I saw Marshall jump over the bar and into a pit of hysteria. Without thought or consideration of the repercussions, I ran toward him, toward the pandemonium, but a pair of arms wrapped around my waist to stop me.
“Marshall!” I screamed.
“Hold up, Alexis,” Wells shouted. “Don’t. Let them do their thing.”
I struggled against his grasp. “No! He could be hurt. Do something!”
“Let them do their thing! They’ve got it!”
And the moment he said it and I stopped fighting him, I saw that he was right.
I don’t know how they knew, but in addition to the two Ginger security guys, another three bouncers from nearby bars did, in fact, handle it. They came in, pulled the fight apart, and had the glass and the douche bag contained in a matter of seconds.
“Is he okay?” I asked.
Just as the words left my mouth, I saw Marshall emerge, his hair and clothes disheveled, blood running down the side of his face.
“No, he’s not!” I screamed.
I began to struggle again, unaware of just how hysterical I was getting and what that meant. I didn’t care. I needed to get to him.
Wells’s grip loosened as Marshall stood, but before I could get to him, the douche bag caught him off guard, and his fist landed squarely in his face with such force Marshall was almost lifted off his feet.
And my heart stopped.
Douche bag was tackled and being dragged out by the time I reached Marshall.
“Oh my God!” I said, dropping to my knees next to him. “What the hell were you thinking?”
But his eyes were glazed over, with no focus. They fluttered shut, and the panic set waves across my body.
“Marshall!” I shouted at him, shaking his shoulders. “Shit!”
Wells was calming the crowd that was now beginning to retreat after watching the show fight, but as soon as he saw Marshall still on the ground, his expression told me he was experiencing the same thing I was.
“Wells,” I cried out. “Call an ambulance!”
“Knock it off,” Marshall mumbled, coming back around. “I’m fine.”
He wasn’t fine. Blood covered the side of his face, and the area was swelling rapidly. His “I’m fine” came out more like “Biam phfind” as his hands gripped the side of his waist.
He wasn’t fine. He was hurt. Something was wrong.
“I’m serious, Al,” he groaned. “Just give me a second to get it together.”
Wells knelt down next to us. “Ambulance should be here any minute.”
“Fuck that! I said—” Marshall struggled to sit up, but doubled over his side as his attempt failed.
“Will you shut up?” I said. “You’re hurt. Don’t try and pretend you’re not.”
“This is my bar and they can’t see me all messed up. What the hell happened, anyway?” he asked.
“That asshole saw you talking to his girlfriend, I guess,” Wells said. “He started getting loud about wanting to kick your ass, and I radioed to Dave. When he
asked him to leave for being a drunk, threatening jackass, he broke the glass and went after him. I think you sort of remember after that, right?”
Marshall’s clouded eyes wavered between Wells and myself before lifting to the ceiling. It was obvious he was trying to recall all that went down, but it wasn’t connecting . My heart beat against my chest, worry and fear continuing to pump through me. I was always the calm, rational one, but that didn’t happen tonight. Just like Marshall jumping across the bar to save what was his, my reaction wasn’t that far different. Instinct and a rush of seeing someone you knew, you cared about, hurt, and logic wasn’t anywhere in sight.
And I didn’t know what that all meant.
There wasn’t time to consider it, either. The paramedics arrived moments later, and I didn’t know which was worse—the way Marshall was looking, bloodied, bruised, and black-and-blue. Or his mouth that was mumbling about everything that happened.
He swatted the paramedic’s hand away that was attempting to check his pupils. “What part of you doesn’t understand that I can see fine?”
“Marshall,” I hissed. “Let him do his job.”
Wells leaned in to me, whispering in my ear. “He isn’t right. I can tell. He may have his cocky tone, but not with anyone working for him or anyone in the bar.”
I nodded because he was right. The dynamic that was Marshall was something I was still trying to piece together. Six years was a long time to be out of someone’s life, but it didn’t mean you forgot how that person acted or how they made you feel. Marshall was always somewhat brash, but something else was different now. There was a hardness about him, a rough-around-the-edges thing that had nothing to do with his once clean-cut appearance to tattooed, bearded boy.
One of the paramedics was talking to Wells while two others were now helping Marshall into a chair. I stood up, inserting myself into the conversation between Wells and the paramedic.
“He’s going to freak,” Wells said to the male paramedic. “But he has no choice, right?”
“What’s up?” I asked.
“They want to take him in to the hospital,” Wells said.
“Well, then he’ll go,” I said.
“Yeah, but—” Wells popped and extended his head in Marshall’s direction, his eyes opened wide. “Getting carried out of here on a stretcher? He’ll lose his mind.”
“He’s sitting up now, but he needs to have that blow to the face looked at and I’m pretty sure he has at least one broken rib,” the paramedic said.
“Shit,” I said, looking in Marshall’s direction.
He was clearly in pain, but he was also a man. There was no way of telling if the hit in the side didn’t do damage or if was “male pain”—that common ailment that inflicts itself on the Y chromosome. The female population was unaware if the inability to handle pain was something that men carried with them in their testosterone or if it was safely tucked away in their penis.
“Someone needs to follow them there,” Wells said with raised eyebrows.
Now that would be weird.
“I have to stay here. There’s no way we can leave these guys on their own, especially after what went down,” he said. “And he knows no one else besides the staff that’s here right now.”
It wasn’t a question, then.
“I’ll go with him,” I said.
And it was no easy feat.
He bitched and moaned like, well, a bitch the entire time he was talking. When he wasn’t talking, he was sulking, which was fine because he wasn’t talking.
Three hours in the emergency room, X-rays, along with a physician’s once-over, and they released him with pain meds for a bruised and thankfully not broken rib. The blood on the side of his face was from a nasty bump, and his eye was so swollen and black-and-blue that cold compresses were recommended to help. If anything got worse, he’d have to go back.
Or we’d have to go back.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, rising from the hospital bed. “You don’t have to stay with me.”
I reached him in time to lend a hand, which he didn’t take. “I don’t mind.”
“Well, I do.”
He stood for a moment, gathering his bearings while gripping his side. There was no choice. I had to take him home and stay with him. He was so hopped up on pain meds, and with the hit to the head, someone needed to keep an eye on him. With Wells working, still keeping an eye on Ginger, it was me who was on Marshall duty.
“Wait here,” I said as we slowly walked to the exit. “I’ll bring the car around.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he mumbled.
I stopped and placed my hands on my hips. “Drop the macho shit, Marshall. You got the crap kicked out of you tonight.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” he snapped. “I was there, and I think you’re being a little dramatic.”
“How do you figure?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘got the crap kicked out of me.’ I was…surprised, and every dude has been there a time or two.”
“I don’t really care. In fact, fine. Walk to the car. Crawl if you want. Do you want me to still give you a ride home, or would you like me to find you a broom so you can fly?” I asked.
He tried to stand tall, to assert his stance or whatever, but the pain in his rib stopped him. I winced because he did, and even though he was acting like an immature jackass, it didn’t mean I didn’t care. We’d been friends, great friends, before I left. It wasn’t like I hated him. I never did. Even with us coming together like we have, with all the anger from him and hurt it caused me, thinking of those years wasn’t without fond memories.
“What?” he asked.
“What what?”
“You smiled?”
“I did?”
“Yeah.”
I was afraid of divulging and had to consider if showing even a little bit of my hand was wise. I wanted to remind him of those times, the times when there was laughter and friendship. That there was a time in which we were part of each other’s lives, and even though I left Chicago, left him, it didn’t mean I forgot. Over the years, I tried to forget it all, but with him back in my life, seeing how he got hurt tonight, those memories rose.
I wanted to tell him this, but there was still so much indignation that rolled off him. I saw it in his eyes. It scared me that maybe he’d never get over what I did.
But there were moments the last few days, especially tonight, when I saw a fragment of something else behind those eyes.
Desire.
I think he saw it in mine, too.
I wasn’t ready to know for sure yet if he was feeling the same. In fact, I wasn’t sure I ever would be. It would be reckless of me to allow any thoughts I had toward him to dictate action. I’d done enough damage, and I wasn’t going to inflict any more, especially on Marshall.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” he asked.
I shook my head, releasing my thoughts. “Nothing. Are you ready?”
“I don’t know. Are you?” he asked, a tiny glimmer of a smirk emerging.
Who the hell knew?
“I’m never ready but always ready, all at the same time,” I said.
“Why doesn’t this surprise me?”
It shouldn’t.
Things were quiet on the drive back to his house except for when he was giving me directions. My eyes focused on the road, while his stared out the passenger window. At a stoplight, I glanced over at him. Even without the car moving, there was enough of a strong wind to blow his hair around.
That hair.
It still blew my mind.
This was the same guy who probably had his own stake in a hair gel company a decade ago. He was all hard body, perfect hair, and button-downs. Aaron and him were like a page out of a Brooks Brothers catalog.
Now everything was different.
How he looked. My name.
My name. It reminded me of something from earlier.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said.
&nb
sp; “Sure,” he replied, his eyes still looking out the window.
“You called me Al earlier. Do you remember that?” I asked.
Without turning his head, I couldn’t see his expression. His head tilted to the side slightly, and the absence of a response told me he didn’t remember.
The light turned green, and I knew his silence meant time was up. “It’s all right,” I said. “I was just wondering where it came from.”
“I fucking hate Alexis,” he said, speaking to the wind. His tone was quiet. Simple. And the way he spoke it, I almost didn’t hear him because the wind almost swallowed his words.
“You hate me?”
“The name,” he said. His head turned, and I snuck a quick glance before bringing my eyes back to the road. “It’s the name I hate.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He said he hated my name. That wasn’t something easy to process. Furthermore, who the hell even says that?
He sighed loudly. “Sorry, but you’re Lexie. Do you know how weird it is to call you something else?”
“It’s not that different.”
“Everything is different.”
“Well, I guess a lot can happen in six years.”
“Yeah, I get it, but why did you change your name? Aaron wasn’t going to try and hunt you down.”
“It wasn’t Aaron I was afraid of,” I said, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “I didn’t want anything to do with the old me, with Lexie to hunt me down. It was myself I was afraid of.”
Silence again.
“First one on the right,” he said, referring to his home in a small three-floor apartment building.
I pulled to a stop in front of it.
“Wait there,” I said, putting the car in park. “And I’ll help you out.”
I opened my door and was about to step out, but Marshall grabbed my hand to stop me. “Hold up a second.”
“You okay?”
“No,” he answered.
He looked like he wanted to say more, the way his eyebrows drew together and he bit down on his lower lip. With his eyes cast downward, staring at our hands, I couldn’t understand what was happening. The only thing I knew was that his hand was still on mine, and every moment that went by, I could feel his grip changing…softening. The tips of his fingers slid between my own as his eyes darted to mine.
So Wicked Page 9
